CXIX.

And she would have consoled, but knew not how:

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er

Infected her with sympathy till now,

And never having dreamt what 't was to bear

Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although

There might arise some pouting petty care

To cross her brow, she wondered how so near

Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear.

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